Epilogue
KIT
It’s six months since the storm. Six months since Peter died and Isla ran away.
Halloween.
Christmas.
Six months since Isla officially accused Marcus Going to Die in Prison of grooming, sexual assault and coercion.
Four months since three other women also came forward.
Now it’s spring tides and new starts.
The Ship Inn smells like spilled beer, salt air, and fresh chips. It’s packed – no barstools left, just bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, everyone turned to the mounted television like flowers to the sun.
Dot’s brought out her binoculars, even though the telly’s less than ten feet away.
‘These are for detecting emotional nuance,’ she insists to anyone who’ll listen.
Frankie and Bill have abandoned their usual dartboard corner to secure prime viewing spots at the bar.
Even Dad’s here, nursing a whisky instead of his usual ale, expression unreadable beneath his weathered brow.
Jude’s parked beside me with two pints and a smug grin that I’ve been trying to ignore. Maisie sits between us on a borrowed stool, her jellyfish-patterned dress smoothed carefully over her knees, hands folded like she’s at a royal gala.
‘Is she nervous?’ Maisie asks, eyes already fixed on the blank screen. ‘Isla, I mean. About talking to this lady?’
‘Probably,’ I say, finding her small hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘Brave people usually are.’
‘But she’s used to being on TV,’ Maisie counters, brow furrowed. ‘She’s famous. Lily’s mum said she was the best thing in that Netflix monstos … monstos…’
‘Monstrosity,’ Jude fills in. ‘And yes, she was, Mais, but this is different. In interviews, actors are supposed to be themselves.’ His gaze flicks to mine and my stomach lurches. ‘This time Isla is really being herself.’
Maisie considers this, then nods solemnly. ‘That’s much scarier. Did she have to be herself when the police came to visit and all those people who wanted to talk to her about that bad man?’
It’s official. My stomach is so knotted, I’m going to puke.
I ruffle her curls, which pulls a pouty scowl from Maisie as she smooths them back down again.
She’s growing up so fast, even forgetting her rain hat some days.
In the mornings she stands in the bathroom and follows Isla’s routine, although Isla has bought her all her own kiddie-safe products, because apparently retinol, whatever the fuck that is, isn’t good for perfect kiddie skin.
‘Yep, but Isla is as brave as a lion.’ I scooch Maisie closer so Nina has space as she turns up with a basket of chips that nobody ordered but everyone will eat.
‘Two minutes,’ Ayo calls from behind the bar, remote in hand. ‘Everyone shut it!’
The pub quietens so quickly you could hear a pin drop, conversations tapering into expectant silence. My heart hammers against my ribs as Fiona Bruce appears, crisply framed and composed, and the volume seems to rise without anyone touching the remote.
‘Tonight, we’re joined by Isla Quinn,’ Fiona begins, ‘one of Britain’s most celebrated actresses, whose recent allegations against director and former manager Marcus Vale sent shockwaves through the film industry…’
My chest goes tight. Maisie’s hand finds mine, small fingers squeezing with surprising strength.
The camera cuts to Isla.
She’s not hiding behind glossy makeup or studio polish.
She looks like herself – hair loose at the nape, a green jumper that softens the sharp line of her collarbone.
Her fingers twist the edge of a tissue on her lap, the only visible sign of her nerves.
But I know her tells – the slight lift of her chin, the careful way she’s controlling her breathing.
‘Dad,’ Maisie whispers excitedly, ‘she’s wearing the jumper we got her!’
The one we found in that little shop in Falmouth, moss-green with wooden buttons. The one Maisie insisted was perfect because ‘it matches Isla’s eyes when it’s about to rain’.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
‘Why now, Isla?’ Fiona asks, direct but not unkind. ‘After five years working with Marcus Vale, and after so many years had passed, why did you choose this moment to come forward?’
Isla’s hands still on her lap, and I can see her drawing strength from somewhere deep.
‘It wasn’t a choice, really. Not in the way people think.
’ Her voice is steady, clear. ‘I walked in on Marcus with a young actress – she was barely twenty – and the look on her face…’ She pauses, swallows visibly.
‘I recognised it immediately. It was the same look I had at her age. That mixture of fear, shame, resignation. In that moment, it was like seeing myself from a decade ago, and I couldn’t walk away. I couldn’t pretend.’
Dot mutters something that sounds like ‘good girl’, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. Beside me, Jude shifts in his seat, jaw clenched tight.
‘You’ve mentioned that Marcus Vale “systematically isolated” you early in your career,’ Fiona continues. ‘Can you explain what you mean by that?’
Isla nods, gathering herself. ‘When Marcus first approached me, I was an eighteen-year-old drama student, desperately ambitious, and completely naive about the industry.’ Her gaze drops briefly, then rises again with renewed determination.
‘He presented himself as a mentor, someone who saw my potential when no one else did. But I realise now he was grooming me to only accept his word, his way.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Frankie huffs from the bar, loud enough to carry.
Several people nod in agreement, murmurs rippling around the room.
Maisie frowns up at me.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer.
Fiona Bruce shifts in her seat. ‘Everyone has seen the photos Marcus Vale released of you last year. Are you able to tell us more about that?’
For the briefest moment I watch the woman I love quake a little in the plush armchair she’s folded in. It’s momentary, and then she lifts her chin. And I love her even more.
‘The first I knew about the photos was the day after they were taken. And I knew…’ She trails off, her voice wavering, and I feel this wild protective surge rip straight through me.
Just the same as I had when the interview had been recorded and I’d stood to the side, ready, waiting, there if she needed me, as I always would be.
‘What did you know, Isla?’
Isla pushes her shoulders back. ‘I knew he had me. I knew if I told anyone he’d ruin me. I’d have looked like I was so desperate for fame … I … I…’ My hands curl into fists on the tabletop, and Jude gives me a gentle nudge. ‘I would do that.’
‘Do what, Daddy?’ Maisie blinks up at me with those dark blue eyes of hers.
I relax my fists and tap the end of her nose. ‘Don’t you worry about it.’
My gaze turns back to the screen where Fiona Bruce is leaning closer to Isla. ‘How did this impact you in the long run, this physical hold – threat – you were under?’
‘It destroyed me.’ Isla’s voice catches slightly, emotion shimmering beneath the surface.
‘All I’d ever wanted was to be an actress, to prove that I was good enough.
But he, he twisted it, so that I was so ashamed I never went back to see the people I loved.
’ Isla lifts a shaking hand to her cheek and it breaks me.
But then my girl straightens herself back up and looks Fiona Bruce straight in the eye.
‘He stole that from me. It’s not just about the physical things he stole; it was my belief in myself. ’
‘Can you explain that more?’ Fiona is leaning forward, knowing she’s on the cusp of the good stuff.
‘How could I go and see my grandmother, my friends’—she swallows here—‘if beneath the success, beneath the veneer of Hollywood shine, was a girl who had foolishly, pathetically, allowed herself to have that done to her? He told me I wanted it, that I wanted fame enough that I’d let him manipulate me.
He continued to manipulate me. Told me that if I didn’t perform’—her gaze drops for a second, followed by another push back of her shoulders—‘didn’t do what he wanted, those photos would be public. Everyone would know I’d sold myself.’
There’s a shocked silence in the pub. I glance down and realise I’m holding Maisie tight to my chest, probably hoping that the sound of my heartbeat will drown out the words echoing in the silence of the Ship.
‘But you did get away, eventually?’
Isla chews on the side of her mouth. ‘I think he got bored of me. Maybe I got too old. I pushed back when he wanted me to sign the next three-film deal, and he let me go, but it was too late for some things, too much time had passed. I was isolated.’
‘But you got home eventually? We’ve seen much happier pictures of you printed recently enjoying the Cornish coast.’
‘Yeah, I found my way home.’ A smile lights her face and I can see her glance to the side where I had stood as the interview filmed.
‘Kit Harding.’ And there it is. My name out there.
Forever entwined with hers, just as we agreed.
‘He was my childhood best friend. Every summer I’d go to stay with my gran, and the Harding boys were my family.
’ Her cheeks pink. ‘Until Kit became more.’ For a moment her smile drops.
‘I’ll never forgive Marcus Vale for messing with my own perception of myself, for making me believe I was so worthless and broken.
Trash. That I couldn’t go home.’ She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
‘Kit found me again. And he’s given me the strength to finally tell he truth.
What Marcus did to me was wrong. What he’s done to other women is wrong.
No woman should ever think her self-worth is so little that she can’t face the people she loves.
Kit has shown me that I’m not faulty, or broken, and that I wasn’t in the wrong because that happened to me.
For so many years I thought it was my fault. ’
‘That’s you,’ Maisie whispers, not even attempting to hide her delight. ‘She’s talking about you on proper telly!’
‘I gathered that, thanks,’ I mutter, heat crawling up my neck.